


we held the day in the palm of our hands

by redandgold



Series: Don't Mention The War [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> Dearest recip!!!!!! im so sorry for this trainwrek......issues u a giant I.O.U. in apologie I luff u and hope u like bits of this at least <333
> 
> All the research notes are in chapter 2...I'm not even going to pretend I can fit everything in 5000 characters in the end notes
> 
> Title from Billy Joel's Goodnight Saigon, probably one of my favourite songs of his

 

 

Almost all the stars are shining, that night. Gary lies on his back and feels the mud sink into the coarse woollen fabric of his greatcoat. Lies on his back and looks up at the sky, inky black and quiet, the ground collapsing under its weight. Nothing moves in the darkness except the stars above him. Gary lies on his back and looks at the stars and wishes that someone – anyone – something – anything – would make a fucking noise, would move a fucking muscle. Just to break the silence. Just to remind him he's still alive.

 

 

_i.  
Manchester_

 

 

 

It's one of those things: one of those things that's only self-evident the first time you decide, and afterwards always you don't know why you did it. It isn't about king or country or Lord Kitchener's face that begins to pop up everywhere, moustachioed and hatted, grandiose in statement. It isn't personal glory, or Belgium burning, or protecting England and her green, untouched pastures.

It's doing something, and if there's one thing Gary is good at, it's doing. He doesn't talk to anyone about it. Not their decision to make, he reasons. The company writes him a nice letter and gives him a postcard of an Aspinall 0-6-0 Locomotive with the number 223. He tucks this into his shirt pocket and it's still there when he goes down to the recruitment office.

"Oh, Jesus," Phil says when Gary mentions it at supper, and ma smacks him.

"There's not going to be a war," pa says from behind his newspaper. Gary can just about make out the pages from where he's sat: _Serbia Denies Knowledge_ _of Plot, London Science Museum, Brighton for Your Summer Holidays_ _._

Gary doesn't say anything in reply. Tucks into his food and thinks about being here, hot food warm bed, a city he's known all his life, United down the road.

 

 

 

They give him a rifle and tell him to shoot. He swaps his flat cap for a cloth one, khaki serge with a leather strap running from one side to the other. He learns drills, form fours and about turns, route marching, night ops. Digging trenches. Work parties. Tea, sometimes, and then off duty past five. He runs more, trains harder than anyone else. Reads all the manuals when he's off duty, just to make sure that he knows more than he ought to. It's routine and within a few weeks he thinks _why the hell am I here_ – it's too easy, too thoughtless – being able to march in a perfect line doesn't mean anything. Isn't _doing_ anything.

He sits and waits and stands and waits and runs and waits and waits.

Something has to happen.

 

 

 

Every so often they get the newspapers. A surly-faced sergeant named Scholes hands them out, his mouth drawn into a thin line, and Gary digs his fingers into the broadsheets until his fingers get ink-stained. It goes from _Stop Machinations, is Austria’s demand_ to _Europe again quakes over powder-barrel_ to _The war peril in Europe_ to _Britain’s position must be safeguarded_ in a matter of days.

When it does happen, achingly slow and oddly absolute, Gary's kicking a ball around with some of the lads. They'd found out he was from Lancashire and Yorkshire, which meant United, which meant football. Each regiment has their own team and he was roped into the Manchesters' defence quick enough. They haven't beaten the Scousers for five years, and it's starting to rankle, especially now with a couple of stars in their ranks.

It's good, Gary thinks. Something to aim for. Helps him stave off the boredom. Helps him think of another colour that isn't khaki.

When it does happen, he's just passed the ball to the sergeant, who twists beautifully and hammers it past the crude shovel-goalposts twenty yards out. It's a gorgeous goal, the kind that would get the whole stadium to stand up, if they were still in the stadiums. Someone shouts from the side. Captain Robson hurries towards them with the paper, his eyes gleaming, hat fallen off somewhere. "Look," he says, still breathless. Comes to them and kneels down and spreads the paper in the dirt.

_W A R DECLARED ON GERMANY._

_At this very moment the Empire is on the brink of the greatest war in the history of the world._

_England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty._

When it does happen, there's a moment, and then everyone explodes: cheering, swearing, fuck the Germans, vive la France, Belgium here we come, at last. The football has rolled to a stop farther out past the shovels. Gary glances at it, once, looks back at the sergeant, who's standing to the side with his face pulled into something inscrutable. He meets Gary's eyes. Holds his gaze.

 

 

 

There's this calm, like –

 

 

 

No one's on Warwick Road. The pavement is slick with rain and Gary kicks his way down the street, slipping sometimes. It's stopped. The rain. Gary looks up; the sky's darkening, and behind him he can hear the nine p.m. to Bowdon rattling the tracks.

The gas lamps are out. Maybe the lamp-lighter has gone to war, too.

He breaks into a jog, his boots digging into the asphalt. Goes past the cricket ground that's already empty; he'd heard the cricketers had all joined the line snaking outside the town hall. Goes past the neat rows of council houses and the Trafford Hotel and the brief stretch of green that's stark against the rest of the brick. He's into a run now, stretching his legs like he's chasing a football down the wing, looking up to cross it. Still no one on the road. He hurdles the tramway on Chester, risks a brief glance at the Dog and Partridge where he and Phil used to wait for the footballers to come out with charcoal sticks and crumpled newspaper.

There was once Sandy Turnbull ruffled his hair and he'd asked _what's it like to play_ and Sandy'd said _the greatest feeling in the world._

He runs across the railway he once built, looking down at the steel tracks laid out for miles and glinting in the evening light. He runs until he gets hit by that breathlessness and the seizure tight in his chest and he stops, bent over double, hands on his knees, panting.

His breathing slows.

He tilts his chin up. He'd been here the first day, cadged a ticket at the back of the main stand where the roof had made it harder to see. Watched them fuck up a three-nil lead to lose to Liverpool, of all teams, but he'd been there all the same. Thousands and thousands. Young men, mostly, like him. Cloth caps. Watching without knowing why; watching without being able to look away.

It's dark and he can only see the outline above him, jagged triangles cutting into the sky. There's this calm. He thinks of the grass inside, bright as a billiard table. Thinks of ma preparing supper for one less person. Thinks of the railways across Europe creaking under the weight of the living.

"Shut up, Neville," he says aloud. Straightens his back, walks back down the road. There isn't time to think now. Only time to do, and if there's one thing he's good at, it's.

 

 

 

_ii.  
Le Havre_

 

 

 

The only thing he knows about it is that it's a French port. His section corporal Butty full of shite, pulling out histories a dime a dozen that sound suspiciously made up, but Gary listens anyway; it's something to take his mind off the incessant lurch of the transport ship in the stormy waves. All he can smell is salt and the sick of a half-dozen men farther down the railing. 

"First time?" says a voice behind him. The accent's all scrunched up and awful to listen to. "Look at the horizon where it isn't moving. Breathe in deep.  That's it. And out. Dig your wrists into the railing. It makes you feel better. Dunno why."

He does what the voice says and feels the bolts in his head loosen a little. There's a firm hand on the small of his back which somehow helps. The man's face appears in his peripheral vision, square-jawed with a sharp nose and a broad forehead, vaguely familiar. He grins and gestures at the badge on Gary's hat.

"Bendover, eh?"

 Gary's half-dead but he'll always have energy to roll his eyes at a Scouser. "Go on, then. Make a joke."

"No jokes." The man laughs. "Gives you lot character, which you need."

"Rather be a Bendover than a Leather Hat," Gary retorts. "A fashion statement? What kind of nickname is that?"

"One with a long and distinguished history, obviously. Kingsmen and that. Seventeenth-century. What were you lot, late-nineteenth?"

"Who cares? That was years ago, mate, we'd do a bang-up job now."

"Feeling better?"

The question takes Gary by surprise and he blinks, realising he hasn't thought of the sea since. The man laughs. "My da used to teach us. Dockworkers, like."

"Well." Gary offers an awkward grin. It's the least he can do. "Thanks."

"No problem. Mancs always look like they could use a little help."

"Yeah? Looks like you're the one outnumbered here, mate," Gary scoffs, looks around at the deck of the _Buteshire_ where the rest of the 2 nd Manchesters are draped in varying states of distress. Butty's somehow still on his factually inaccurate monologue and looks about the only one who's ready to fight, but he tilts his head over at Gary and winks.

"Giving you any trouble, Nev?"

"Just be on standby, Butty. You never know with these sorts."

"We missed the bus," the man explains. "Me and my mate Steve. Fell sick. Heard you lot were going the same way, so we hitched a ride."

"Steve?" A flicker of recognition lights up Gary's brain. They said there were two footballers with the Scousers, and one of them was called Steven. "You're Jamie Carragher."

"One and only." Carragher wiggles his eyebrows. "A fan?"

"Of watching Turnbull run rings around you, yeah."

Carragher looks rueful at that. "Okay. Fair. Can't say our last few games have been all we've hoped for, but we're getting there. Especially with our kid." He nods at another soldier with the horse pinned onto his lapel, somewhat recognisable as Liverpool's star captain and halfback Steven George Gerrard, discounting the fact that his entire face had turned green. 

"I've a platoon sergeant," Gary says, "Scholes. We play together for the regimental team. He'd wipe the floor with your lad."

"Tell you what." Carragher shifts to nudge his shoulder and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "When we next meet we'll set up a match. Extend the record to six years running. First derby on foreign soil."

Gary blinks, and he's back on a boat headed towards a place where war has been declared and the fires are burning. There's a corporal from the first battalion, King's Regiment (Liverpool) staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He feels sick in his stomach all over again.

"Yeah," he grinds out, looks back at the horizon where it isn't moving. "Next time. Yeah."

 

 

 

They spend a day at the harbour getting over the thunderstorm. Carragher and his mate zip off almost immediately, but Gary doesn't notice; he's too busy trying to make sure he can walk in a straight line. It feels like he's had five pints at the pub and his head is caving in.

All around him is a and khaki and rifles and equipment. Webbing scattered on the cobblestones, captains trying to gain control of their men. Not a single civilian in sight. Gary looks around from where he's sat, slippery-wet cobblestones that run the length of the dock and a row of neat, bright-coloured continental houses behind. Remembers he's not in Manchester anymore – vive la France, mate, wasn't this why you came?

They get herded into a dockyard shed like sheep. "Enjoy your night, lads," Robson says, looking grimly up at the ceiling where moonlight is filtering through the gaps in the planks. They spread out on the ground, khaki sardines, and Gary ends up dozing off on Butty, whose shoulder is firm and warm and reassuring. 

 

 

 

Scholes nudges him awake with the toe of his boot. Gary blinks and looks around, grabs his rifle, jumps up.

"You don't want to miss the train," Scholes says. Then cracks a wry grin, which is almost more shocking than a war. "Your area of expertise, innit?"

It's a cattle train. It still smells as they load up, so someone opens the door and they watch the French countryside whisk past them. Everything's green and plain and the sky is blue and it's like nothing at all's going on; it's like they're here for a holiday, like trips to Devon, sitting on the grass and lying flat on your back. Wonderfully calm. Not even raining.

They get to Le Cateau, eat in a field. Butty suggests making flower chains and is snorted down. They march to Landrecies, sleep, wake up, mill around, march to Saint Waast, sleep, wake up, march to Hainin, are welcomed, march to Thulin.

March. Sleep. Wake up. Mill around. Wait.

Gary finds himself thinking of Carragher, wondering if he ever made it to the front. Wonders where the front is, and if they're headed there. Most of the lads seem to think so. Scholes will only shake his head.

"Shut up," he says, "and someone find a football."

Kickabouts are either disorganised or furious and this is somehow both of them, played in a street of Thulin no one knows the name of, the leather ball bouncing off the walls and cobblestones with an odd muffled _mmph._ Gary's just scuffing the ball away from his side of the street when something like a crack of thunder bursts in the distance.

Almost instantly Scholes has his webbing back on.

"Right, lads. Move out in five."

He sounds, Gary thinks, like someone who's done this too many times.

 

 

 

_iii._ _  
Mons_

 

Battle is:

 

 

 

They dig trenches. Shallow ones, because that's all the time they have, and then they lie down. They're camouflaged by a copse of trees, the khaki of the 1st DCLI just ahead of them. Past the tree line Gary can see a bridge right in front of their position, iron squares and stretched across a span of blue water that doesn't end on either side.  

"Mons Canal," says Butty.

"How d'you know?" asks Casp.

"It's a canal, and we're near Mons."

Casp elbows him in the back of his head, and Butty's about to fight back when Scholes says, "ready."

It's magic, or an optical illusion. Suddenly a wave of brown and grey is cresting the fields across the canal when there'd be no one before. Gary has laid his Lee Enfield out in front of him and it's loaded and the bolt is drawn back, just like a training ground. A training ground and real people. Real lead, hot lead, he's going to kill someone today. He's going to die today.

"Fire only when I tell you to," Scholes says. He's lying right next to Gary. He's shouting but somehow his voice seems almost quiet, not a tremor in it, as flat as the unbroken surface of the canal.

It seems to take an age. Gary isn't sure how long he's lying there for, two minutes or two years. The only thing he's aware of is Scholes's breathing beside him, measured to the time of a perfect march. Their sleeves brush against each other. Gary glances over; Scholes's eyebrows are furrowed, nostrils flared, but he isn't angry. Something different.

Shells are screaming in. Gary's never heard anything like them. The earth rumbles when they land. Puffs of smoke. The 1st DCLI are getting torn up. _Why can't we go help them?_ he wants to say. _Why don't we do something?_ But that isn't how it works, and he knows this.

The line breaks. DCLI bat backwards, somehow orderly in retreat; professional soldiers, Gary knows, hurrah for the B.E.F. There is the sound of footfall. Shells. And then they are coming. And then they are here.

 

 

 

"Fire," Scholes says.

 

 

 

There's a sudden roar of noise – as quick as machine gun bullets, without having actual machine guns – all the bullets of the clip gone – _reload, reload_ – men falling, grey and brown, in front of him, rifle hot – someone next to him or down the line, screaming – _oh God oh God oh God_ – rifle fire clattering in his ears – loud angry demanding blood – _watch out, Neville, Jesus Christ_ – sharp steel and burning metal – dust blown up from a shell settling around, on his shoulders like dandelions –

 

 

 

Someone touches his arm. "We're pulling back." He looks around, blindly, trying to follow the voice. He knows the voice. Butty. No jokes this time. Butty's grim and half of his face is covered in blood, but he yanks at Gary's arm all the same. "C'mon, Nev. The French have been overrun the other side, we can't hold the canal any longer."

The French – oh, Jesus. Gary doesn't even know what they're doing there. What he's doing here. He lets himself be dragged by Butty out of the copse of trees and then they're marching, quick-drill, parade square. About turn, sergeant major. Yes sir. No sir. The sun's gone down, he realises with a start. Everything is sooty black or dull red, lit by the fires that burn beside the roads. Fires that burn.

They stumble backwards in the dark. Butty's voice is the only thing he holds on to, and even then it strains sometimes, gets lost in the snatches of wind. Once he thinks he sees Casp's face pale and unblinking at the side of the road.

"Stop," Butty's saying. "Over here."

It's a field of some sort, Gary doesn't know. All of France is beginning to look the same. He falls onto the ground and closes his eyes until the sounds of the guns fade into a dull echo in his head.

 

 

 

His feet are starting to ache; he checks his boots and there's blood caked in around the toes. "C'mon," Butty says kindly, pulling him up from where he's sat in the grass.

They're walking again. The Great Retreat, they'll call this in history books to come, even though there's nothing great about it. Just men and guns and bursts of distant gunfire every now and then. "Rearguard action," Butty tells him, nothing made-up this time. Butty's thirty years old and has been in the army for half of his life. Gary just follows, grateful.

The town they come to looks familiar. _Le Cateau_ , Gary reads off a sign, remembers it vaguely; they'd sat in a field here somewhere and eaten lunch. He can taste the dry biscuit in his mouth.

_Halt._

They halt.

_Set up positions._

They set up positions.

They're arranged on a rolling hill, artillery trundling out just behind them, so close Gary's almost worried for his hearing. It's a funny thing to be worried about.

"Rearguard action," Butty says again. He elbows Gary, grins, a wide, stupid smile that reaches from one large ear to the other.

 

 

 

Shells bloom like flowers around them.

Battle is: beautiful, in the strangest most curious of ways. If he pretends that it's nothing but a circus show then it becomes one, dawn breaking over the horizon as men arc backwards. Dancers. Trapeze artists. Gary peers up from his shallow grave at an enemy that isn't even in sight, only the sound of artillery any reminder that they are there.

 

 

 

Later they find out that there was no one to their right; the Germans had free rein over the territory, and the British guns were too close to the men to stay out of range. Later they find out they've lost three hundred and fifty men in a single day. Later they find out they've hardly delayed the German advance at all, hardly made a dent in their I Corps, still being chased all the way to Paris.

Later isn't now. Now Gary presses his trigger blind and jerks the bolt back until he hears the click of the next bullet. Clip finished. Reload. Come on, Scholes roars above the noise somehow, his voice still horribly calm. Don't stop. Don't stop now.

A bullet pings just past Gary's face, kicking dust into his eye. He blinks and brings a hand up; it comes away bright red. Somewhere shrapnel must have cut his face. He hadn't even noticed. He's awfully tired. Like he's spent a whole day on the rails, like what would happen if he played a football game that never finished. Just running and running till his heart gave out. He doesn't know why it comes back to these two things, always.

Someone shouts near him. Butty. "Come on, Nev," he's saying, the burst of fire from his Lee Enfield so quick and accurate it's almost a machine gun. "Just a little bit more, yeah. Just a little bit more and we'll be relieved. We'll be sent back to Paris, or summat. Gorge ourselves on hot grub. Cold grub. Eclairs. Shit. I'll bring you to a – "

Later Gary will remember the smell, the singed grass and the dirt rolling itself into balls. The way the hillside looked so incongruous peppered with potholes. Scholes, screaming, the crack in his voice finally.

Now, there is Butty, and then no Butty. A vanishing act. Magic.

 

 

 

_iv.  
_ _Attichy_

 

 

They take the train back. Another cattle train that rattles the rails, with a locomotive not dissimilar to some of the LYR ones he'd used to work with. Gary loses himself in the rhythmic clanking, trying not to remember the scattered bodies in the fields. Butty and Casp and Ince and about a dozen others he knew by name.

Scholes keeps staring out the open carriage door. Gary tries to distract him by telling him facts about railways that no one actually cares about, just so he has something to hold onto. If there's one thing Gary's good at it's talking about anything at all.

Attichy is one of those old cobbledstoned towns that turn up around France a dime a dozen. There's a clock tower in the main square and the houses are spotted with tricolours that hang out the windows. A few boys stand on parapets, eyeing them from a distance; no one comes up to them. Gary reaches up and feels the dried blood that's caked his cheek. Some of them, like Blackmore and Dublin, can barely walk; Parker is moaning that he can't see.

They pitch tents and the wounded are sent back in vans; the rest of them can only wait. It's already been two weeks of non-stop fighting. This is going to be a long, hard slog, Robson warns them. If they ever stop the retreat then that only means they're getting ready to attack.

Everything in the village is quiet, unmoving. Strange. Gary half-expects the houses on the street to be full of German soldiers; they're sharpening their bayonets and waiting for them to fall asleep before they jump out and stab them all. But every time he looks into a house there's nothing – just cleaned windows, a fireplace in the living room, each as normal as the next.

 

 

 

He writes letters. It seems the only thing he can do. He writes to Phil and Tracey about what they're doing; not that he can say much, and not that he can write particularly well, but the action of scrawling ink onto paper is almost a comfort. He doesn't even know what he's telling them, only that he's doing it.

They've been sending letters too, and they worm their way to him sometimes, ma banging on about pa's work and the family, Tracey about school, Phil enclosing newspaper clippings of cricket and football matches. All of them assure him that they're proud of him.

He folds these up carefully and keeps them in the pocket with his postcard of the Aspinall 0-6-0. A little bit of – well. Manchester. Albert Street and City Hall tucked into his khakis, and if he strains his ears he can hear Old Trafford.

 

 

 

"No fucking way," someone says.

Gary looks up. There's a column of troops coming up the street, looking as tired and worn as they feel. Some of them still have gleaming badges of a white horse on their kit, as if it was the only thing they could be bothered to polish.

"Don’t anyone get into fights, now," Scholes warns. "There's enough injured men without youse taking a Scouser's eye out on top of it."

"That's not an injury, that's just good sense," says Pally, and it gets a due chorus of laughter, although there isn't anything malicious in it. 

Gary peers at the ragged column, wondering absently if he might see Carragher again. Doesn't know why it matters – it's not as if he knew him. Just that it'd be nice to know that someone survived.

There, just as they begin to break off for their billets – at the back. Gary starts towards him, brushing off a shout of _Don't fraternise with the enemy!_ Carragher looks up at the laughter and grins bleakly when he sees him.  

"Still here, are you?" he asks, throwing his kit down on the floor and folding out the tent. "Didn't get washed out in the tide?"

"Fuck off," Gary says, kneeling down to pick up a corner of the tarp. "Only went and swam back, didn't I."

"Why the fuck would you do that, like."

Gary shrugs, grins back. "Didn't have anywhere else to be."

They set up the tent in silence, Gerrard coming over to help after a while. There's a long, raking wound up his arm. Gary wonders if that does anything to a footballer's balance; wonders if Gerrard is going to be as good as they say he is after this is all over. Wonders if Carragher will.  Wonders if there'll still be football – there are guns out there turning grass into mud, and who's to say they won't do the same with pitches.

Everything ends. Flowers wither, memory fades.

"Ta, mate," Gerrard says when it's done, claps him on the back appreciatively, dives inside. Carragher pauses at the mouth of the tent and then turns to fix Gary with a strange stare.

"Want to go somewhere?"

"Where?"

"Don't know." Carragher waves a hand. "Nearby. Just. Somewhere quieter."

"All right."

They walk until the edge of town fades from their view and everything becomes soft, rolling fields, on and on as far as you could see. Wooden picket fences, several cows. The dusk overhead has blended into night. It's inky black and quiet. Carragher ducks under a fence and lies down in the field, and Gary follows suit. The grass is fresh and damp against his back. It's strange to lie down this way and look up at the sky, instead of lying on your front and shooting at Germans; it's strange to lie down with Carragher next to him, shoulder to shoulder, feeling like somehow they've known each other for a long time.

"Do you think – " Gary starts, but Carragher elbows him hard in the arm.

"Shut up. I don't want to think right now."

Gary rolls his eyes but takes his point. Just lies there and feels the grass against his back. One day – tomorrow – the day after – they're going to be back on the front. And they'll do fucking great, like, because they're good at this; because they're good at being good. And more men will die. And the world will be pounded slowly, inevitably, into the bare-boned, muddy pulp from whence it came.

A-men.

 

 

 

Gary wakes up with a start, unsure of where he is and without his rifle next to him to hold. He jerks upright, breathing harsh, and the field he's in looks all too familiar – the same field Butty got blown up in, the same dirt road Casp was lying eyes open on. God. Butty. Where is he now – his ma, pa, parents to a child that no longer exists, thirty years alive and then – nothing. Snap your fingers. Another name on the regimental casualty list.  

He tries to breathe. It comes in large gulps that hurt when he inhales. Piercing his lungs. He's seen bullets pierce men and people get ripped to shreds all for – all for what – Blackmore won't ever play football with the lads again, Parker might never see the sun.

"Hey."

Someone's arm is around him. Carragher. Carragher's next to him. Carragher's rocking with him and Gary notices that he's crying too, the way that soldiers cry with their bottom jaw set and long-lean stares bereft of tears. They cling to each other like they're drowning. Like the grass turns into mud and they're sinking and there's no way out.

"It'll be over by Christmas," Gary says, like he still believes it. His voice breaks a little. "It'll be over."

"Yeah?" Carragher manages something of a grin. "Warm fires. Christmas presents. Snow. Dancing in the streets."

Gary scoffs. "Bet you can't dance."

"Can too," Carragher says indignantly. "I was runner up city ballroom dancing champion as a kid."

"That's not even a thing."

"Look it up."

"You can't be both good at football and dancing."

"So you admit I'm good at football."

Gary scowls at the slip but he can't think of a good retort, so he looks away instead. The sun's coming up over the horizon. "We'd best be going back," he says.

Carragher takes his arm away from Gary. It feels suddenly cold, there, like a fire's gone out. Gary finds himself thinking about something he shouldn't be thinking and pushes it out of his mind. Carragher smiles at him.

"You know," he says, "I still don't know your name."

Gary flushes. "Gary Neville."

"Right, then, Neville." Carragher gets to his feet and sticks out a hand. "I'll see you on Christmas, when the war's over. Then you can show me Scholes and we'll finally have that kickabout you've promised me."

Gary takes his hand. Somehow, strangely, he almost can't bear to let go.

 

 

 

_v.  
Ypres_

 

 

 

The march resumes as if it had never stopped. Gary begins taking down the names of the towns they pass through in his standard issue notebook: Esbly, Boulers, Touran, Limon, Prisseloup, St Marguerite, Richbourg l'Avoue, Les Trois Mansions. One time they get on rafts over the river and Gary would've been sick again had the fighting not been so easy. Some days he's not sure which way they're going – forward or back – only that there are shells, neverending shells, and the trees are blackened husks stripped bare, stranded in mud churned up underfoot.

They start digging trenches. Entrenchment, Captain Robson says, is the best form of defence; short of complete bombardment they will always be there. They go from shallow ones to sandbags to trenches as tall as they are, so that they can walk upright without getting shot at.

Easier for Scholes, who's tiny. Scholes growls at all of them to fuck off.

There are moments where Gary's the only one awake on sentry duty and he's staring into the darkness at the other side. There's a German soldier there somewhere, across all of the mud, probably as terrified of Gary as Gary is of him.

Gary digs his fingers harder into the barrel of his rifle.

 

 

 

Ypres exists in a strange space between reality and fiction; a quiet, medieval trading town that doesn't seem to have changed much for the last five centuries, sitting squarely on a salient that both sides have determined crucial to the war. The flat Flanders plain is broken only by a low ridge running from Kemmel through Passchendaele, merging with the plain in the north-west. Everywhere is woods, which make fighting difficult, or open fields, which make death inevitable.

They march briefly through the town on their way to take up positions further down the plain, closer to Neuve Chapelle. Gary looks up at the Cloth Hall as they go by. It's probably the oldest thing Gary's ever seen, the grandest thing, rows and rows of glass windows and spires winding into the sky.

Civilisation, that. They pass and Flanders' fields sprawl before them, waiting to be dug into. There are red flowers in the mud. There's a colour if there ever was one.

 

 

 

Battle is:

 

 

 

He feels almost an expert now, or at least an old hand, the clicks of the bolt being pulled back their own musical notes. He doesn't scream anymore when the shells burst around them, mulching the ground into mud. He's one of the quickest trench diggers and he moves like he knows exactly what he's doing, even if he doesn't always. He's found that's a good trick.

They get hit hard and fight back and it's a riot of screaming, bullets, blood. A peculiar dance. Take your turn. They move in time, one-two-three-one-two-three, a concert.

Gary still wishes he were home, sometimes, but more and more he no longer has that luxury. It takes too much time to dream of being somewhere else. You are here, in the mud and the trenches and hard biscuits, your boots broken in with piss, picking off lice when you can; you are here and this is.

 

 

 

"Relief's here."

Word goes down the line. Gary's ears perk up. He nudges Scholes, Scholesy these days, who jolts with a start and looks ready to kill someone. The lads exchange the news in excited whispers.

"1st Manchesters."

"Where've they been all bloody year?"

"India, I heard."

"About fucking time."

"D'you think we’ll go to Paris?"

"Who cares, as long as we get off the fucking line?"

The whispering stops, replaced by knowing almost-sneers as a company of 1st Batt makes its way through the trenches. _Clean_ is all that Keano offers, which still makes some of the soldiers flinch. Their captain halts in front of Robson stiffly. Book, Gary vaguely remembers his name as, if only for the jokes doing the rounds that his first name was _By The_.

"Orders from Lieutenant Colonel Mercer," he says, crisp. "A Coy to replace yours in trenches near Festubert. You are to retire to the support trenches and await further orders."

"A'ight," says Robson.

They pack their kit. None of them are holding out too much hope; the life of regular Army is a life on the front, and there are battles yet to come. But even the most scornful of them are thinking of Paris. Or some other city. Big and bright, where you choose not to sleep, instead of waking up from bullets that rattle sandbags above.

 

 

 

So they are saved.

So they are damned.

 

 

 

Kanchelskis bursts in breathless. The movement's enough to jolt everyone awake; they're packed tip to tail in the flat excuse for a trench, dug in a matter of days and wide enough only for a man's shoulders. "Attack," he says, doubled over, exhaling hard. "They're taking the trench further down. 1st in trouble. Might be coming for us."

"Fucking hell," someone else says, but Gary isn't listening. His ears are already tuned to the sound in the distance. Low and rumbling.

"Not might," he says.

The shells land like a drumroll. A neverending barrage that exists only to destroy the line from end to end, working its way down with horrific accuracy. The land they've dug the trenches into is the low land and it's close to water; the bombardment digs up holes in the ground that begin to leak, flooding the trench knee-deep. Gary sloshes through the mud, trying to make sense of where they're going. What they're doing. He sees bits of someone strewn in one of the puddles, the surface glistening eerily under what light they get in the dark. He sees things he never wants to see again. Scholesy is somewhere in front of him, screaming at him to get a move on. He trudges, step by step, wading forward. His boots feel so heavy.

"Come on, Neville," Scholesy yells at him, waving a hand. They're all crammed down past the next traverse and Gary's almost there. Almost there – he lumbers forward, once more and then –

 

 

 

He wakes up.

Everything is quiet.    

He's on his back. There's something wrong with his leg. It's gone all numb; he struggles to lift himself to see, but his head thumps back exhausted. He puts a hand to his side and it comes back wet. He thinks maybe not water.

Almost all the stars are shining, that night. Gary lies on his back and feels the mud sink into the coarse woollen fabric of his greatcoat. Lies on his back and looks up at the sky, inky black and quiet, the ground collapsing under its weight. Nothing moves in the darkness except the stars above him. Gary lies on his back and looks at the stars and wishes that someone – anyone – something – anything – would make a fucking noise, would move a fucking muscle. Just to break the silence. Just to remind him he's still alive.

 

 

 

"Neville?"

Gary blinks.

Someone's got their hand around him and they're yanking him back into the trench, inch by inch. He uses his arms to push himself forward. The pain's spreading now, flashes of white-hot flame interspersed with a dull, aching pain all along his side. His brain feels light, like air, like it's floating somewhere in the clouds.

Clouds. It's morning. Gary flings an arm over his eyes to block out the sun, and there's a lone burst of gunfire somewhere. "Stop being so obvious, you twat," the voice – he knows the voice – hisses.

He falls into the trench with a crumpled _thud_. Jamie Carragher's face appears above his, pale and owlish.

"What the f – "

" _Excuse_ me," Carragher says, mock-affronted. "I just saved your life."

Gary starts to laugh. Some thin, reedy voice that claws at the back of his throat. He can't do anything but laugh; he laughs so hard his side begins to pulse, until Carragher has to stick a hand over his mouth and tell him to shut the fuck up there are Germans around.

He reaches up and wraps his fingers around Carragher's, meaning to pull his hand away. Carragher catches his gaze for a split second. Curls his own fingers in, ever so slightly, and then lets go.

"Why are you here?" Gary asks.

Carragher shrugs. "Heard you were in trouble. Again."

"Really."

"We're up at Ypres." Carragher pronounces it the way all the English do – _wi-pers._ "Scouting parties. Germans are all over the place, and we got tangled up. Then we heard you lot were trying to get your trench back, so I figured I'd pitch into a party."

"With – "

Carragher's lip curls. "An unsuccessful party."

Gary takes a look around. They're in a corner of one of the traverses, shielded at an angle. There are dead soldiers on the ground. He glances at their faces, quick, not wanting to recognise anyone. Scholesy isn't there.

"Where's – "

"Germans are down there," Carragher says, pointing to the east trench. "Trying to get down communications. Your lads aren't letting them."

Gary grins. Another pang wreaks through his body and his face crumples into a wince, a gasp. Carragher looks at him sharp.

"Stay with me now, Neville, yeah?"

"Where was I hit?"

"It's only a scratch. Stay with me."

Gary snorts. "Don't worry. Your voice is annoying enough to keep me awake."

"Yeah?"

"You sound like what I imagine a talking cheese-grater would sound like."

"You're lucky you didn't get saved by a Brummie."

"I've not been saved yet," Gary says, rasps a dry laugh.

There's more gunfire in the distance. The sun is further above them now; it looks almost noon, and Gary feels oddly exposed in the brightness. Like there's a spotlight on the two of them and the Germans will see them any second. The sky is too blue for him to die.

"Hey," he says. "Carra. Tell me about football."

Carragher blinks and looks at him. "Now?"

"Yeah." With his good leg he nudges Carragher hard in the side. "Go on." Then, "Please."

Carragher clears his throat. "All right. It's not as fun as it sounds. The ball's heavy, yeah. And it's all hell playing in winter when the pitch Is snowed up. And your feet feel like they're freezing in your boots. There was this game against Bradford, New Years' Day '12. Jesus. What a game. Both teams were going hard at it, like. Probably almost had my leg broke a couple times. Pitch was almost frozen over. And you're wondering why the hell you're doing this when you could probably earn more doing welding or something?"

That was what pa had said to him, when he'd thought about it; there's more money in railroads, lad, you're young and strong, it'd be a waste otherwise. At the end of it football's only another job. Same rate of pay a week and so bad that a lot of them have to work another job. The club gave you a house, if you were lucky. But then they could take that away any time they wanted to.

He doesn't know why he's asking Carragher to tell him this. He's going to die. It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

"And then you look up. It was a home game, like. Anfield. And there were – thousands, tens of thousands of people. All staring at you. All cheering when Stevie scored the winner. It's not anything you could ever describe, this. And it struck me then, yeah – why I play. The same reason they came."

Gary starts to smile. He feels – calm. Peaceful, almost. Like all of this is fine. The sunlight, Carragher's voice, the vastness of the sky. He wonders if it's the weekend, if United are playing home or away. Whether Phil's going to watch. How many goals Turnbull will score.

"What was it like?" he says. "To play."

He knows the answer even before Carragher says it. Carragher grins. In the light it's almost tender.

"It was the greatest feeling in the world."

 

 

 

Darkness, again. Is it night time? Gary doesn’t know. He opens his eyes and there isn't anything around him, not even himself; he can't stand up, or move, or scream. His ribs feel like they're on fire. There's a voice but it's far off. _Carragher?_ He tries to say. _Jamie? J –_

"Gary. Gary. Gary!"

Jamie's shaking him hard by the shoulder, another hand across his face. Gary chokes to life sputtering. They're in the same spot; it's afternoon now, and Jamie's staring at him with his eyes wide and face pale. "I'm awake," he mumbles. The pain in his side has faded to a sort of dull throb instead. He reaches a hand down and feels strips of sterile bandages Jamie must have put on him. Sees an empty morphine syringe on the ground; maybe that's why.

"You should be, you bastard," Jamie's saying, laughing, an edge to his voice. "I've better things to do than sit around for hours next to a Manc only for him to die – "

"I'm not going to die – "

"No, you're not," Jamie says. "You're not going to die."

His hand is still flat against the feverish skin of Gary's forehead. Gary thinks of – Gary doesn't know what he's thinking about. Something along the lines of how he barely knows Jamie, barely knows what he likes or where he's from or who he is, really. And that Jamie barely knows him but somehow he's saved his life. And that if he were Jamie he'd probably have done exactly the same thing.

And that he's very, very close.

Jamie slips his hand down, fingers burning warm against the sharp angles of Gary's face. His palm comes to a rest against Gary's cheek. It's a dangerous game he's playing – court-martial, trial, execution – but his gaze is very sharp and his eyes are very bright. Gary feels his breath catch in his chest and swallows.

"You're not going to die," Jamie says again, and kisses him.

In the sharp cold of the trenches Jamie's mouth is almost a shock. He curls into Jamie's grasp, Jamie's fingers brushing the matted hair out of his eyes. It doesn't last very long. Two seconds and Jamie's already pulled back, grinning, cheeks flushed.

Neither of them say anything. Gary sinks back against the wall of the trench and exhales slowly, looking up at the sky. Thinks of the rain, all of a sudden. Cold and dripping down his collar along his spine. He wishes it were raining, then. Wishes the sky were dark and Jamie was grinning at him through a sheet of water, almost imperceptible.

                                                                                                                        

 

 

"Listen."

Gary looks up. There's some shouting coming from down the trench. An explosion. A flurry of gunshots from rifles, and then boots stamping up the traverse next to theirs. Jamie raises his rifle.

"Don't – "

Scholesy bursts in, only the split-second of recognition stopping him from unloading his Lee Enfield into Jamie. Keano follows quickly, damn near drops his rifle. There's another smattering of gunshots from behind them and then the air is quiet again.

"Gaz," Scholesy says.

Gary winks.

"One and only."

They bring up a stretcher and he's quickly put on that, hoisted into the air and setting off for the reserve trench immediately. Gary rolls in and out of consciousness. In flashes he registers Jamie's presence, at the side of the stretcher when the trench is wide enough otherwise slightly behind it. By the time they get to the rear he's gone.

 

 

 

_vi.  
_ _Versailles_

 

 

No. 4 General in Versailles is a building, four-walled instead of two and so oddly large that Gary feels almost out of place. He's got his own bed and a friendly nurse comes by to give him hot food. The sheets are almost painfully clean compared to the ragged men who lie on them.

Shrapnel, he's told, and a bullet that he's lucky didn't sever any major arteries. One month.

It's a month he whiles away with gritted teeth and staring out the window. A lot of the men around him are doing the same, if they can help it; small movements here and there that tell him they're feeling what he is. Wanting to go back out there. Not because of any misplaced sense of duty, or patriotism, or wanting to kill more Germans. Simply because that was where they belonged. Who they belonged with.

I want to go home, Gary thinks, and isn't sure what he means.

 

 

 

_vii.  
_ _Dranoutre_

 

It's snowing by the time he reaches the front again. It's a welcome change from shells raining down on their heads and Gary takes a moment to stand there, feel the snowflakes land on his face and dissolve.

Soldiers are milling about the town, a bunch of them sat in the café that opens up to the square. There's music going from inside and it spills out onto the cobblestones like the light. Some of them are dancing with the village girls, with each other, laughing and stumbling and cursing as they're kicked in the shins.

It's almost – it's almost.

"Gary," someone yells from behind him, and then there's a _whump_ as he gets flat out tackled to the ground. Jamie scrambles to his feet and yanks Gary up with him, pulls him into a brief hug.

"Gary now, is it?" Gary says snidely, and Jamie just laughs.

"Neville, you ungrateful bastard."

"What d'you want, a thank-you card?"

'The kickabout you promised. I saw Scholes booting one around and you're right, he's almost as good as Stevie."

"Fuck off, he's miles better."

"Yeah? Prove it."

They've been stumbling towards the café all this time, their shoes making imprints on the snow piling up on the ground. They reach the group of dancers. Jamie stares at them for a split second and then grabs Gary's hand and drags him into the group. Gary finds himself pressed up against Jamie, too big and too warm.

"What are you – "

"C'mon, it's easy, I'll teach you."

"Runner up city ballroom dancing champion?"

"Shut up, Neville," Jamie murmurs into his ear, "for once in your life."

As it turns out, Jamie doesn't know to dance. He's got their hands in the right position at least, one entwined and the other around the waist, but after that everything else is made up. They try to follow the lead of the other couples but they get their feet so hopelessly mixed up that in the end they just sort of fall around together, laughing hysterically. _Jesus,_ another soldier calls, _you don't know what you're doing, do you?_ and Gary yells back _I'm dancing, you fuck_ , and that sets everyone else off again.

For all of that – for all the jokes and flailing, Jamie stepping on Gary's feet so many times he's going to spend tomorrow hobbling – it reminds him of an oddly specific moment. In this dream it's also snowing, but they're indoors. Home in Manchester. Christmas Eve. The white outside is almost blue in the darkness. They've lit the fireplace specially for this and it casts a warm glow on everyone's faces, flickering orange on the walls.

They're eating dinner. Every so often one of them will say something about football.

Phil's smile glints golden.

 

 

 

_viii.  
_ _Wulverghem_

 

 

 

Scholesy and Keano get VCs. Captain Robson notifies everyone as they're heading to Wulverghem, gathering them before moving out to read them the citation. To their credit, neither of them look particularly pleased; Scholesy looks distinctly embarrassed, like he's trying to dig into the ground and disappear. "Voluntarily, huh?" Lee says, "Keano's only conspicuously brave when there's a stray cow he might have for dinner."

Lee's lucky there's a war going on, or Keano might have killed him then and there.

The shells get louder as they wind their way through the trenches, now better constructed, shored up with wood and corrugated metal in places. There's a strip of barbed wire above their line and nothing moves. Nothing. At night, once, they're sent on a raid to the German lines. Gary crawls across No Man's Land with his heart in his chest and there's nary a sound on either side, only the scuffle of his own boots.

In the winter the land looks somehow even more desolate. Bare. Fog rolling in early mornings and blanketing the battlefield, a crisp chill that makes you grind your teeth. Ghostly. But they don't let themselves think about that. They can't let themselves think.

 

 

 

"It's almost Christmas," Gary says.

They're sitting in a dugout, him and Scholesy, the bit of shelter above them that much more comforting. Scholesy grunts.

"Tomorrow, innit."

Gary looks at his watch; it's just ticked past one in the morning. Christmas bloody Eve. They'd gotten the Christmas cards last week, a picture of the King and Queen and the message _may God protect you and bring you home safe_. It's in his pocket with the Aspinall.

"Weird, that."

"Yeah?"

"Always been home for Christmas."

"Ah." Scholesy tilts his head and gives him a quick look. "What you'd do?"

Gary laughs. "Nothing, really. Have pie if we were lucky. Sometimes we'd have a tree, or there'd be carol singers going around. My present was the same thing every year."

"What?"

"Tickets to the Boxing Day game." Gary makes a face. "I know. But it was – part of it as anything else."

There's a sharp flash of recognition across Scholesy's face. "No, I know. I used to watch with – Butty."  He pauses. Smiles, slow. "Isn't Christmas without football."

Gary leans back and peers out of the dugout. The rest of the trenches are quiet; save the sentries, the men are dozing off where they stand. There's a thin layer of snow already on the ground.

"We're playing Liverpool," he says. "This Boxing Day."

"We'll be fine. They've not got their star players."

Gary almost resents Scholesy for mentioning this, if he hadn't known that it was entirely intentional. Scholesy's watching him with a cool, dead-eyed gaze. His lips are quirked into an infuriating little grin.

"They're just thataway," he says, tilting his head. "We can always set up the kickabout you owe Carragher. Have our own Boxing Day."

"Mm." Gary drums his fingers against the wooden box he's sitting on. "Will we win, do you think?"

"I always think we'll win," Scholesy says.

 

 

 

Battle is:

Gary wakes up. His rifle's in his hand, bolt drawn back and bullet chambered even before he knows it. Besides him, Scholesy's already scrambling up to the parapet.

"Stay down."

The air ripples with noise. Not guns, or shells, or screaming. Not the gargles of men getting drowned in mud. Just – noise that makes you feel alive. Voices. Songs.

"It's Silent Night," he says in wonder. "They're singing Christmas songs."

 _Stille Nacht_ _._ Gary puts a foot on the firestep and hoists himself up to peer over. There're lights on the other side, dozens of them, arranged in odd sorts of pyramid shapes. Fir trees. Christmas trees. The lights are candles, and with no wind on the battlefield they stay like fireflies. All is calm. All is bright.

It makes Gary's heart ache, for some reason. As if he'd found something he'd lost.

"Tommy," one of the Germans yells after they finish. No one moves.

"Tommy," he yells again. "You come out. We don't shoot. It's Christmas."

Gary looks over at Scholesy, who catches his gaze and blinks. There's a flicker of movement over the mud and a shadow is getting up, hands above his heads, dimly illuminated by the candlelight. "Maybe they're drunk," Scholesy says.

"Too much eggnog."

 It's a throwaway comment but Scholesy laughs anyway; his face seems to crack and suddenly he's ten years younger, fresh-faced, a little boy in a uniform too big for him. The snow is falling and it looks conspicuous in his ginger hair. Gary realises he doesn't know how old Scholesy is, or where he's from, can't imagine him without a rifle in his hands.

Ah, but hell. They're all kids.

He stands up.

God, it's quiet. Scholesy's hand is reached out and pressed against the small of his back. Lee's mouth is open but no sound comes out, or if it does Gary doesn't hear it. Gary only hears the rush of blood through his ears. He puts his hands in the air and steps clean onto the parapet.

The trench systems are anywhere between thirty to two hundred yards apart from each other. Gary figures this is fifty, sixty yards, just past the halfway line of a football pitch. At the point Sandy Turnbull would try a shot with his rocket of a boot. It wouldn't go in, but it doesn't matter. Just the arc of the ball as it flew.

Sound slowly starts filtering back into his brain; the German saying, again, don't shoot, Scholesy yelling at everyone else to hold their fire. The German takes another fumbling step forward. Gary's completely cleared the trench, now, has his feet firmly on the soil.

They walk like strangers. It takes an age to cover the half-a-pitch of snow and mud and bullets, Gary suddenly wishing he'd taken someone's pistol, at least. He keeps his eyes fixed on the German all the way through, and the other soldier does likewise.

He's tall. Taller than Gary, although that isn't saying much. He's got curly hair and a nose too big for his face. That's relatable, Gary thinks, almost laughs.

"Fritz," he says.

"Tommy." The German grins. "My name is also Tommy. Thomas."

"Gary."

They shake hands. It feels almost like it isn't actually happening. He ought to be shot for fraternisation. 

"You look like shit," Thomas says, still grinning.

"You should see me when I'm scrubbed up," Gary says. "Even worse."

There's a rustle from behind and Gary turns around immediately, freezing. Scholesy and some of the lads have got up. They're just stood there watching him. He swallows and turns back to Thomas, who's fixed him with a bright, sharp gaze.

"No fighting today?"

"I'd like not to."

"No one should die on Christmas," Thomas says. The smile on his face wavers a little.

More boots crunching on snow behind him. "What's this," Captain Robson asks, coming up and putting a hand on Gary's shoulder to push him aside gently. "Are you surrendering?"

"No." Thomas signals to his men, who line the edge of their parapet cautiously. "No fighting today."

Robson looks at him, then at Gary, then the lads who're filing out behind him. The strangest of limbos. Two groups of gaunt, scraggly men too cold and hungry, staring at each other like they've never seen people before.

"Let me talk to your captain," Robson says.

 

 

 

They lie down in the middle of No Man's Land. It's an odd shift away from the trenches and the sheer height of them, cowered behind walls waiting for something to happen to you. Here the land goes on as far as the eye can see. It's daylight now and Gary finds himself on a blanket of snow, the tiny fir trees that the Germans put up swaying gently by their lines.

He gave, with some reluctance, half of his chocolate bar to Thomas. At least Thomas seems to be enjoying it.

"Where'd you learn to speak English?"

"School." Thomas shrugs. "Where did you learn?"

"Funny."

"I am being serious."

"Manchester," Gary says. Something still curls up in his chest.

"Ah." Thomas winks. "Football city."

"United," Gary corrects almost automatically, laughs. "Yeah. You watch football?"

"Not just watch." Thomas jabs a finger into his chest. Gary can see his sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. "I play."

"Really?"

"Bavaria," Thomas says, as if that explains everything. It doesn't quite. A German's a German to Gary, who's never been out of Manchester unless you counted Bury. 

But it's something to do. And if Gary is good at one thing, it's doing.

"D'you want to – " Gary props himself up on his elbows and looks at Thomas, wondering. If they played lengthwise they could easily fit in a proper pitch. Rifles for posts or summat. Eleven a side. More if they wanted – it didn't have to be organised, it just had to be a kickabout – something that was just –

A reminder. A reminder.

" _Ja_ ," Thomas says, beaming, knowing what Gary means without Gary having to say it. "Let me find players. Do not pay the referee."

"We'll try not to." Gary gives him a wave and scrambles to his feet. Scholesy's harder to spot in a crowd but Gary eventually finds him milling with a ragtag bunch of British and German soldiers, ensconced in a serious argument about what the best sort of biscuit is.

"Sarge. Game."

Almost immediately Scholesy's ardent defence of custard creams is abandoned. "Right," he says, signalling for Lee to get the ball out of his rucksack. "Show this lot a thing or two."

"Think they're setting up over there."

"Hey." Scholesy grabs Gary's arm. There's that smirk on his face Gary's come to know too well. "Think we might be short on a couple players. Know where to find any?"

"Oh," Gary says. "I might do."

 

 

 

The Kingsmen's sector is just up the line from where they are, closer to Ypres. There are soldiers gathered here too. They've even got champagne, somehow, further proof of the unequal treatment between regiments. Gary shoves his hands into his coat pockets and tries not to be too obvious about going after stray bottles.

"Gaz?"

Christ, he feels like he'd almost forgotten that voice. Everything pummels into him like a sledgehammer; the grass, the sea, the blood on his hands.

"Carra."

Jamie's right there in front of him, thinner but none the worse for wear. Same broad forehead and square jaw. Still looking like someone bashed his face in with a spade, Gary thinks, a little too fondly. To be fair Jamie looks a little too fond to see him as well.

"You all right, then?" Jamie asks. "Not quite dead? Imagine the sheer embarrassment must've taken a toll."

Gary shrugs. "Eh. If you lot don't die after finishing 16th in the league then what's a little shrapnel?"

"Fuck off," Jamie says, delighted. "What're you here for, Neville? Looking for a trouncing or something worse?"

"We're having a game against the Germans at our side. Scholesy thought you and Gerrard might be useful sitting on the sidelines."

"I think you mean leading England to fame and glory."

"We'll be lucky if you don't score three own-goals."

"Rude. Might play for the Germans instead."

"Even more useful, that."

"Then lead on, MacDuff."

"D'you read Shakespeare then?"

"Dunno. Everyone keeps saying that to Macca, so."

All of this is – Gary looks away for a beat, at the soldiers around them, at the sun tucked under the clouds in the sky. At Jamie, beaming at him _that_ way he doesn't understand, just knows. All of this. Gary opens his hand and turns it palm up. Waits for a snowflake to land on the calloused skin. Closes his fingers over, squeezes till the water seeps through.

 

 

 

There are some half-hearted jeers as they make their way back, but mostly there's an expectant kind of hush, the kind you get when two footballing heroes walk into your amateur wartime team. Keano sizes Gerrard up and everyone breathes out when he nods. "I think Gaz should be captain," Scholesy says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

He dishes out orders, liking the weight of responsibility that settles on his shoulders. In another life, perhaps. Where the pitch isn't mixed with blood and they aren't all wearing heavy army boots that could kill in a tackle. Where they think of shooting footballs without thinking of shooting guns. But this is why they're here, why Lee carried a heavy leather ball halfway across France, why someone's gone to convince the chaplain to ref. So they are saved. So they are damned.

Thomas jogs up to where they've scraped the halfway line in the snow, sticking a hand out for Gary to shake again. Gary looks at the lads behind him and thinks _we can take them._ It's just a Boxing Day game, this. Isn't Christmas without football.

"Good luck," Thomas says.

"You too," Gary says.

He jogs back towards his own goalposts, two Lee Enfields stuck in the mud. Jamie's playing centre-half and gives him a wink as he goes by.

"Told you I'd see you on Christmas, Neville," he says. "War's over."

The chaplain-referee whistles sharp with his fingers and the Germans kick the ball and Gary thinks, once Sandy Turnbull ruffled his hair and he'd asked _–_

 

 

 

_TO-DAY'S FOOTBALL LEAGUE – DIVISION I_

_UNITED START WELL: NOTES ON HOME MATCHES_

Raining, at Old Trafford. Triangular rafters in the sky. Grass churned underfoot. Red shirts.

_Both sides_ _were at normal strength, and, in spite of the bad going, it was a keen match. The display of football far surpassed what might have been expected. Manchester United astonished many people by their energy and skill. The backs were very strong, and the halves swung the ball up to the forwards that gave the speedy outside wings many opportunities to get away._

Play like an F. A. Cup final, so they're told, so they do. Meredith in incredible form. Roberts and Duckworth a match made in heaven. The crowd's going at it like hammer and tongs, and it lights a fire in his heart. He gets the ball. Keeps burning.

_Towards the interval, the United pressed heavily. Meredith made a certain opening for Turnbull, but the whistle went because of an injury. Roberts, playing close up, found the goal at his mercy, but he was fouled inside the penalty area. Stacey was given the penalty, and his hard rising shot was magnificently saved by Shaw in goal._

They move like dancers. They move like the ball is what keeps them going, this running. It pumps the blood into his legs. There's something fierce about it, fierce the way no other sport makes you feel, wind rushing past your face as the enemy barrels toward you on a collision course. He clears Shaw easily.

_With a quarter of an hour gone in the second half Bannister turned the ball over to Meredith, who closed in, and as the left full back reached him he got a tremendous pass in to Turnbull._

His feet are freezing. There is this: himself, the ball, an empty net, a couple of rifles stuck in the mud. His breath comes in harsh pants. There's the noise of thousands watching without knowing why; watching without being able to look away. There's the noise that reminds him he's still alive.

He looks up. The sky is vast and the sun is out. A haphazard path forward trails out in the snow behind him, kicking up bullets and bones. At the Dog and Partridge there're kids waiting with charcoal sticks and crumpled newspaper, and he'll tell them it's the greatest feeling in the world. This. Himself, the ball. The railroad in the distance.

Somewhere, someday, a boy lifts his boot off the ground, and scores.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With particular thanks to [The Long, Long Trail](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/), and [the Great War Forum](1914-1918.invisionzone.com/). 
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


	2. RESEARCH NOTES

Title from Billy Joel's Goodnight Saigon, which is actually a very beautiful poignant song about the Vietnam War

Disclaimer: The British Expeditionary Force which originally fought in WWI was a professional force and Gazza's recruitment thing is more for narrative purposes than anything else - Kitchener's New Armies only entered actual active service in 1915/16  
[More about recruitment in Manchester](http://waltertheraleigh.blogspot.sg/2015/09/recruitment-in-manchester-1914-15.html) / [Recruitment in general](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oz4BBPR5fvw)

 ********RANKS********  
[Overview](https://www.bl.uk/world-war-one/articles/military-structures-and-ranks)  
In this AU, basically, anything from division upwards is historical; brigade is headed by FA peeps, the battalion is headed by the club manager (so 1st Mancs is City, 2nd Mancs is Utd, 1st Liv is Liv, 2nd Liv is Everton etc.), each company is a club captain, each platoon is staffed by club legends, and so on. To illustrate, here are the 2nd Mancs mentioned (this WWI timeline corresponds to roughly the 1992-1999 squad):  
Lt Col: Fergie  
Company Captains: Bryan Robson, Steve Bruce  
Platoon Lieutenants: Roy Keane (who'll be promoted when Robbo dies), Mark Hughes, Paul Parker  
Platoon Sergeants: Scholesy, Andre Kanchelskis, Clayton Blackmore, Gary Pallister  
Corporals: Butty, Lee Sharpe  
Privates: Chris Casper, Dion Dublin, Gazza (who'll be captin by the end of the war, probs)

 ********REGIMENTS********  
2nd Manchesters: [X](https://www.themanchesters.org/2nd%20batt.htm) [X](https://www.tameside.gov.uk/LibrariesandLeisure/MuseumsandGalleries/Regular-Army-1914-1919) [X](http://www.manchester-regiment.org.uk/) [X](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/army/regiments-and-corps/the-british-infantry-regiments-of-1914-1918/manchester-regiment/) [X](http://www.wartimememoriesproject.com/greatwar/allied/regiment.php?pid=17630) [X](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/watch-fascinating-world-war-one-7541200) [X](https://www.forces-war-records.co.uk/units/275/manchester-regiment) [X](http://www.themanchesters1914-18.org/regimental-history.php)  
Kings Regiment (Liverpool): [X](http://www.wartimememoriesproject.com/greatwar/allied/regiment.php?pid=17675) [X](https://www.forces-war-records.co.uk/units/259/kings-liverpool-regiment) [X](http://www.ww1photos.org/regiment/liverpool-regiment/) [X](http://liverpoolremembrance.weebly.com/local-regiments.html)

 ********EQUIPMENT & WARFARE********  
[Timeline](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_World_War_I#1914)  
[Overview of military operations 1914](http://scans.library.utoronto.ca/pdf/1/2/3edmilitaryopera01edmouoft/3edmilitaryopera01edmouoft.pdf) / [Orders of battle](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=hzUZ-26KYQ4C&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false)  
[Equipment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjqdgGb739w)  
Trenches: [X](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trench_warfare#Field_works) [X](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Q62.jpg) [X (distances)](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/soldiers/a-soldiers-life-1914-1918/life-in-the-trenches-of-the-first-world-war/) [X](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2676663/Google-WWI-View-Explore-First-World-War-trenches-watch-Western-Front-evolve-Germans-Allies-forged-attacks.html) [X](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/first-trenches-are-dug-on-the-western-front) [X](https://dianaoverbey.wordpress.com/2012/01/13/trench-construction-in-world-war-i/)  
Life: [X](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/soldiers/a-soldiers-life-1914-1918/) [X](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2715098/The-haunting-account-trenches-ll-read-brilliant-anthology-Birdsong-author-Sebastian-Faulks.html) [Shell Shock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faM42KMeB5Q)  
Artillery barrages: [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRPFQMO8yX4) [X](https://angrystaffofficer.com/2016/07/01/anatomy-of-a-world-war-i-artillery-barrage/) [X](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barrage_\(artillery\)#Use_in_World_War_I)

 *******1910S FOOTBALL*******  
Sandy Turnbull was one of United's best players, and our most famous player to die in WWI (1917).  
[Football in 1910](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=XwD2ELIGMcYC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false)  
[United in 1914/15](http://strettynews.com/2014/11/20/wartime-reds-1914-15-season-review/)  
[United vs. Liverpool](https://www.11v11.com/teams/manchester-united/tab/opposingTeams/opposition/Liverpool/)  
[Midfielders used to be called halfbacks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Formation_\(association_football\)#2%E2%80%933%E2%80%935_\(Pyramid\))  
[Liverpool-Bradford](https://www.11v11.com/matches/liverpool-v-bradford-city-01-january-1912-59064/)  
[1914/15's Boxing Day game was really against Liverpool (a 1-1 draw](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1914%E2%80%9315_Manchester_United_F.C._season))  
[Liverpool finished 16th in the league](http://liverpoolfc.wikia.com/wiki/1913-14_season) in 1913/14

The Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway that Gaz works for is the company that started United (Newton Heath LYR)  
[Gary's LYR postcard](https://www.gracesguide.co.uk/images/b/b2/Im1891EnV71-p148a.jpg) / [more about trains](http://www.lyrs.org.uk/Locomotives)  
223 - yes that's a Hidden Cawwaviwwe Reference

Origins of WWI: [X](https://www.express.co.uk/news/world-war-1/495282/WW1-The-conflict-that-altered-everything) [X](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/July_Crisis)

Basic training: [X](https://www.bl.uk/world-war-one/articles/training-to-be-a-soldier) [X](https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/from-civilian-to-first-world-war-soldier-in-8-steps) [X](http://spartacus-educational.com/FWWcamps.htm) [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4fZqnrG5U8)

Headlines in 1914: [X](https://blog.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/2014/07/30/historic-headlines-great-britain-joins-world-war-one-on-4-august-1914/) [X](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/ww1-archive/11004294/Daily-Telegraph-August-5-1914.html) [X](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/aug/04/firstworldwar-national-newspapers) [X](https://clickamericana.com/media/newspapers/wwi-newspapers)

 **Manchester in 1914:**  
[occupations](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/nostalgia/world-war-two-names-occupations-10384987)  
[map](http://johannes.library.manchester.ac.uk:8181/luna/servlet/detail/maps002~1~1~336066~123030)  
[9 p.m. to Bowdon](http://www.altrinchamelectric.org.uk/msjar.html)  
[gas lamps](http://www.1900s.org.uk/lamp-lighter.htm)[asphalt](http://www.pavementinteractive.org/pavement-history/)  
[Old Trafford](http://www.manutd.com/en/History/The-Old-Trafford-Story/The-Old-Trafford-Story/2014/Oct/The-Old-Trafford-Story-1910-1930.aspx)  
Unrelated, but I came across this [really interesting thing](https://gm1914.wordpress.com/2014/02/20/belgian-refugees-in-stretford/)about Belgian refugees in Stretford  
I genuinely went to check whether they had green billiard tables in the 1900s ([they did)](http://mentalfloss.com/article/53233/why-are-pool-tables-generally-green)

Both the Kings and Manchesters land at **Le Havre** :  
\- [1st Bttn Kings lands 13 Aug (from Southampton, SS Irrawaddy) ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King%27s_Regiment_\(Liverpool\)#cite_note-51)  
\- [2nd Bttn Manchester lands 17 Aug (from Ireland)](https://www.tameside.gov.uk/LibrariesandLeisure/MuseumsandGalleries/Regular-Army-1914-1919)

Regimental Nicknames: [X](http://1914-1918.invisionzone.com/forums/topic/227561-regimental-nicknames/) [X](https://archive.org/stream/regimentalnickna00londuoft#page/n7/mode/2up%20) (I really love that they were called the Bendovers just bc of '69'... never change, humanity)

 **Details about the crossing/journey inland:**  
[Buteshire](https://ourwar1915.wordpress.com/2017/11/03/1074-private-arthur-james-freeth-2nd-battalion-the-manchester-regiment/)  
Le Havre: [X](http://perso.orange.fr/MT06/LeHavre_D_0.jpg) [X](http://perso.orange.fr/MT06/LeHavre_D_0.jpg) [X](https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205022525)  
[Thunderstorm & train journey](http://wodensden.blogspot.sg/2014/02/first-world-war-centenary-2-private.html)  
[more train journey](http://1914-1918.invisionzone.com/forums/topic/246134-train-journey-from-le-havre-to-le-cateau-ww1/)  
[even more journey](http://www.themenbehindthemedals.org.uk/index.asp?page=full&mwsquery=\(%7BPerson%20identity%7D=%7BTrott,%20T%7D\))  
[another account](https://ourwar1915.wordpress.com/2017/11/03/1074-private-arthur-james-freeth-2nd-battalion-the-manchester-regiment/)

 **Mons:**  
[an entire book](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=odKkAwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false)  
[Overview](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/battles/battles-of-the-western-front-in-france-and-flanders/the-battle-of-mons/) / [2](https://www.britishbattles.com/first-world-war/battle-of-mons/)  
[Troop movements](https://www.forces-war-records.co.uk/maps/battles/2/battle-of-mons/)  
[Order of battle](http://www.ww1remembrance.com/mons)  
[Map](https://www.britishbattles.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/2-battles-of-mons-560.jpg) \- DCLI - Duke of Cornwall Light Infantry - at first I wrote it not noticing the DCLI and I was like 'why are the Manchesters...behind the canal...if ur defendin it shouldn't u be in front... Only Then I realised  
British rifle fire was so quick and accurate the Germans thought they were being shot at w machine guns, at first  
At the farthest of their retreat the 2nd Manchesters were only 15 miles from Paris

Clayton Blackmore, Dion Dublin, and Paul Parker all suffered injuries that put them out of the team for months. Dublin had a leg injury; I can't find any info on Parker's and Blackmore's except that they were 'bad'??

 **Ypres:**  
[X](https://greatwarphotos.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/8062980100_4b4770b904_b.jpg) [X](https://1914centenary.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/ypres_in_ruins.gif)  
[Order of Battle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Battle_of_Ypres_order_of_battle) \- both 1st Liv and 2nd Mancs fought  
[Letters Home](https://1914centenary.com/2013/11/29/letter-home-tells-of-dangers-of-ypres-in-1915/)  
[Map](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/maps/line1914.jpg)  
[In Flanders' Fields](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47380/in-flanders-fields)  
1st Liv position: [X](http://battlefields1418.50megs.com/divisions1.htm#2nd%20Division) X [X](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b5/Battle_of_Langemarck%2C_from_21-24_October_1914.png)

1st Manchesters relieved 2nd in October; I stole the name Book from [this list](http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1808433-6-greatest-manchester-city-captains) of city captains, most of whom I've uh never heard of, and Mercer is Joe Mercer who managed City.

A Lieutenant and and a Sergeant from 2nd Mancs really did win Victoria Crosses for retaking the trenches near Festubert: [X](http://tonyrod.webs.com/manchesterregimentvcs.htm) [X](https://www.thegazette.co.uk/London/issue/29015/page/10920)  
Fun fact, one of their VCs is actually in the IWM which means I've seen it, just didn't know at the time! Hrahhh

Homosexuality in WWI: [X](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/forgotten-origins-modern-gay-rights-movement-wwi-180963283/) [X](http://www.eastsussexww1.org.uk/homosexuality-in-wwi/) [X](https://www.sbs.com.au/topics/sexuality/feature/secret-history-australias-gay-diggers-anzac) [X](https://www.nytimes.com/1990/04/08/books/gay-soldiers-they-watched-their-step.html)

Medicine in WWI:  
[List of hospitals](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/army/regiments-and-corps/british-base-hospitals-in-france/)  
[Evacuation procedure](http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/soldiers/a-soldiers-life-1914-1918/the-evacuation-chain-for-wounded-and-sick-soldiers/)  
[X](https://www.forces.net/news/tri-service/wounded-medical-equipment-first-world-war)[X](https://www.ncpedia.org/wwi-medicine-battlefield) [X](https://encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/medicine_and_medical_service) [X](https://www.bl.uk/world-war-one/articles/wounding-in-world-war-one) [X](https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/02/world-war-i-medicine/517656/)  
I UH WENT TO DC RECENTLY AND EXPRESSLY VISITED THE WWI MEDICINE EXHIBIT JUST TO CHECK UP ON THIS STUFF SO: [X](https://imgur.com/a/NaTxb3u)

Scholesy really did say [he always thought United would win](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/147685451604/i-always-think-united-will-win) ;----;

 **The Christmas Truce:**  
[Silent Night in German](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGA6djLsDgs)  
[X](https://www.nam.ac.uk/explore/christmas-ww1) [X](http://www.andrewsgen.com/matlock/warmem/warmem_10.htm) [X](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/dec/24/soldiers-letters-bring-first-world-war-christmas-truce-to-life) [X](http://time.com/3643889/christmas-truce-1914/) [X](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/the-story-of-the-wwi-christmas-truce-11972213/) [X](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/world-war-one/11310353/The-truth-about-the-Christmas-Day-football-match.html) X [X](https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/9-facts-about-football-in-the-first-world-war) [X](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Association_football_during_World_War_I) X X X  
Shoutout to the WWI part of Terry Deary's Terribly True War Stories for formulating my entire understanding of the truce when I was like 10 y/o  
Also shoutout to the [shameless marketing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWF2JBb1bvM) that was the Sainsburys' Christmas Ad but nevertheless emotive...I remember seeing it before Imitation Game and wondering what movie trailer this was  
Also shoutout to the movie Joyeux Noël

Bayern was founded in 1900....but you know that ._.

[Custard creams existed by 1908](https://www.biscuitpeople.com/magazine/post/custard-cream) JUST SO YOU KNOW

gawwy.......cawwa......

Football articles used for reference in the last section: [X](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/w6kAAOSwrLRaqgvb/s-l1600.jpg) X [X](http://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/newspapers/Digitised/Article/straitstimes19130510-1.2.92.1?ST=1&AT=filter&K=manchester+united&KA=manchester+united&DF=&DT=&Display=0&AO=false&NPT=&L=&CTA=&NID=&CT=&WC=&YR=1913&QT=manchester,united&oref=article) [X](http://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/newspapers/Digitised/Article/straitstimes19130218-1.2.72.3?ST=1&AT=filter&K=manchester+united&KA=manchester+united&DF=&DT=&Display=0&AO=false&NPT=&L=&CTA=&NID=&CT=&WC=&YR=1913&QT=manchester,united&oref=article) [X](https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/search/results/1910-01-01/1919-12-31?basicsearch=manchester%20united&exactsearch=false&retrievecountrycounts=false) [X](https://blog.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/2015/01/14/local-newspapers-football-match-reports-and-the-1908-fa-charity-shield/)

Two incredibly interesting looks at the aftermath of the war: [X](https://www.invisibleworks.co.uk/ghosts-of-the-great-war/) [X](https://twitter.com/PaulMMCooper/status/989100350044082176)

*******BOOKS REFERENCED*******

which I, uh, all physically own

Historical:  
Guns of August - Barbara Tuchman - HIGHLY RECCED, GOD  
The First World War - John Keegan  
The Western Front Experience - Gary Sheffield  
Battle - R. G. Grant  
Battlefields - Michael Rayner  
The Illustrated History of WWI

Fictional:  
All Quiet on the Western Front - Erich Maria Remarque  
Terribly True War Stories - Terry Deary  
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks  
War Stories - Sebastian Faulks  
A Long Long Way - Sebastian Barry

War Writing:  
War - Sebastian Junger  
Despatches - Michael Herr  
Anthem for Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

Football:  
My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes - Gary Imlach  
The Footballer Who Could Fly - Duncan Hamilton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR INDULGING IN MEE I LUFF U I HOPE U LOIKED


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